Flashpoint
by Esteban T. Rodriguez
Summary: An honest cop trudges his way through Gotham's underbelly to find his wife, abducted by the Joker. But everything is not what it seems. Rated for violence and mild language. Might continue with this.


I always hated rain. It's cold, wet, and washes away everything you've built so hard to keep. Which leaves me to question why I moved to Gotham of all places.

Work, I guess. A desire to make the world a better place, be a goddamn hero. That'd be me, the fall guy who's content with knowing that at the end of the day, he did a good job and go home to his wife, and someday kids. Maybe.

And then life throws you for one. An invisible sociopath, Gotham Police force on a constant state of red alert, and now the wife's gone too. Well, there's only so much a guy can take. And, to be brutally honest, I was getting pretty tired of waiting around for something to happen.

Two months, leading up to all this. The killings, the notes, the pressure of fighting a nameless and faceless enemy, trying to compete with someone you don't even know is real.

And then, the night of her abduction. It had already been a bullshit day, one worthy of a hard gin when I got home. Dent had been running our section ragged, stealing the thunder and flashing that two-faced grin to the crowds. Makes you sick, seeing his self-righteous two-faced smile on all the billboards, all the papers, all the magazines.

And of course, the one who gets more publicity that Harvey Dent is his opposite number. The newspapers call him the Joker, but he's no laughing matter. Harley's been - my wife, Harleen. She never lets anyone else call her Harley, but me - busy with him at work, trying to get some sort of new and amazing fact on the news. She's good at her job, always was. Why she's stuck it out with some nearly spent cop like me is anyone's guess.

But my Harley, bless her soul, she's what's kept me going. She's a young girl, beautiful, sharp as a tack and as bright and upbeat as this city is gloomy. I love her, and I'd never admit it to anyone, but she's kept me together these past two years we've been married. How the hell she manages the demands of criminal psychiatry is beyond me.

Every night, I anticipate coming home to see her; either prim and proper around dinner time, ready with a hot coffee or a wet cloth to wipe away my sweat, or in her pyjamas at two in the morning, waiting for me. I tell her every morning to toddle off and get some sleep, to not wait up for me. She never listens, bless her.

But not that night. That night, Joker had made a big scene. Sent a poor vigilante on a short trip off a building with a rope around his neck. Some Batman impersonator. The less I say about him, the better. I don't need some caped crusader loon doing my job.

Well, the door was forced, with police tape all around my house. The annoyance I had for not being notified vanished almost instantly when I saw the camera flash from inside my living room window.

I ran through the perimeter, not even bothering to take out my badge. Everything's gone to hell inside. Looks like a struggle. That picture I loved and framed from our first Halloween is smashed. My worst fears don't even serve me here. The situation is far worse that I thought. Hell, if she was dead, it wouldn't be so difficult.

"She's gone, John." My old pal, Jim Gordon tells me. "No evidence of where, not even a ransom note. He's got us this time,"

My whole world started to spin after that day. Without Harley, I can't even bring myself to go back into that house. I worked double and triple shifts for a while, trying to distract myself with work. Her picture on my desk always smiles at me, reminding me of what I've lost. But I can't bring myself to turn that picture over either, because as painful as it is, it reminds me of what I'm fighting for.

Weeks pass. No reason, no demands, nothing. Like he did it for a few cheap thrills. Bastard.

Jim wouldn't let me take charge, says my emotions would cloud my judgement. Damn right they would, they'd help me get the job done faster.

The Joker's the top word on the street, that's our best bet. But Jim, he doesn't take that way. Instead, he tries to talk his way through and gets a bullet for his trouble. And his relief is even more of a stringent jackass that Jim Gordon was, God rest his soul.

So, I got tired of waiting. My partner, Nakonechney, didn't take to kindly to my course of action; namely go out onto the street, find the Joker, take him down and get my Harley back. Nakonechney, Chris, tried to stop me. Had to bust his jaw pretty good before he went down. After that, it was easy to track the Joker. Easier than waiting around for him, I'll say that much. He's got all of Gotham's dregs in that diabolical hand of his.

Of course, no plan's perfect. I had a few setbacks. But now I'm sure. Now, it's all down to this condemned building, my Harley, if she's here, and the Beretta in my hand.

Holding it in a low ready stance, I shift along the wall, trying not to make a sound. Every sense I have open to me is taut as piano wire, I'm not letting this bastard get away with her. A twinge in my left shoulder reminds me of the importance of cover when I find him. I don't need another bullet in me, and I can't get cocky like I did on the ground floor.

Then, he's right in front of me. I could pull the trigger now, and be done with it. But I've got to be sure. High stakes we're playing with here. Taking the pistol in my right hand, I walk up to him.

In his arrogance, he's facing the window, sizing Gotham up the way a family does to Christmas turkey. Well, he's not going to have the city, he's not going to have the satisfaction of it, and he's sure all hell not going to have my wife as long as I draw breath.

He speaks in a twitchy sort of drawl, his voice quavering as he twitches ever so slightly. I've seen it before, in other cases. There, they were on something. But the Joker, he doesn't seem to be the type to use, just peddle. Make other people's life wretched, the way he did with mine, and worse.

"Did you do what I asked? Do you deserve to be rewarded?"

The Beretta comes up, the fresh magazine weighing it down. But despite the anger that's had me shaking these past few days, the barrel stays steady. "Where's my wife?" I demand.

He turns to face me, a look of genuine confusion on his face. This guy's uglier than I thought, all scarred and mutilated. Part of me feels sorry for him, but that's quickly buried when I think of Harley.

"Who the hell are you?" He demands, taking a theatrical step back. That, and it could be my looks. I've been in a lot of fights recently and I haven't shaved in a couple of weeks.

"Harleen Quinn," I snarl. "Where is she?"

He shrugs, indicating he doesn't know. The liar. His feigned ignorance only makes me even angrier. What really pisses me off his when he says "Well, why don't you go file a missing persons report?" He degrades into a maniacal giggle. Bastard thinks he's funny.

So be it; time for the punch line. I lunged forward, grabbing a handful of his jacket. Shoving the barrel under his chin gives me a surge of power I welcome. He's had this coming.

"You know full well what I can do." I hiss. "Tell me, and I'll think about letting you live."

"Harleen Quinn?" He asks, cocking an eyebrow. Recognition dawns on his face. "Ohhhh, I get it now. You must be John. Harley's told me a lot about you, policeman."

Only _I_ can call her Harley! My anger erupts and with a vicious crack, the butt of my pistol connects with his nose. He falls, bleeding and laughing. A dark thought crosses my mind; _Killing you would be such a pleasure_.

"Oh, bad, bad, bad." the Joker giggles. "Police brutality, it's a sticky thing."

"Tell it to my Captain." I snarl, grabbing him by the collar and hoisting him back to his feet, Beretta in the place I want it, against his jugular. "And tell me where my wife is."

He simply makes a face. "Why are you asking me?" He nods to the door.

I spare a look at the doorframe where I just entered. A smaller woman is there, in an almost comical jester suit. She looks like she's from a perverse deck of cards, with a Desert Eagle riding in a low slung holster on her hip. But it's her, my Harley.

"John?" She says, disbelievingly. I doubt she recognises me, or can really believe it's me.

I breathe her name, _- Thank God she's still alive! - _a receive a knee in the groin for my trouble. The breath comes exploding out of my mouth as I double over, trying to hold onto my gun. Too late, he's knocked it out of my hand, the chambered shot rings out in the close quarters. His fist feels like a sledgehammer across my tortured cheekbone, sending me spiralling onto a wall. He's coming around now, blade in hand.

I pivot at the last second, catching his arm in mid thrust. I try striking it against the shattered window-frame. Gotta get that knife out of the equation. Try to make it fair. Then again, if it's an equation we're talking about, I was always shitty at math.

Got it! Payback time, you sonovabitch! Anger fuels my blows, knocking him back. The kick I land on his throat would make my old kickboxing instructor proud, and he collapses with a strangled wheeze. Coughing, he tries to get up. But inflicting that damaging blow's satisfied me, given me a taste of force-feeding him some of his own medicine. Just a taste of it, and I want more. Lots more, until even dental records can't ID the bastard.

Then, it clicks. No more Mr. Nice Guy, no more hero cop. Time to play dirty for the pain you inflicted on me. I land a kick on his ribs, flipping him over onto his back. A lead pipe is nearby, thank you old-school plumbing. I raise it above my head, ready to brain the stunned bastard. I want it to be messy and painful, he's earned that much. I won't stop until his head is a bloody pulp.

That's when the whole damn thing goes to hell.

The crack is like a thunderclap in a closet and can only be achieved by a high calibre pistol. A .44 Magnum, or a .50 AE, the kind a Desert Eagle would support.

The shot hits my bad shoulder, close to my lung. It's reminding me of just how much pain I was in. I was so pissed off, I'd forgotten about it. Now it's back, repaying itself tenfold. I slide along the floor from the power of the shot, a streak of black following me. Or at least it looks black in the dim light. And there she is, my Harley, the heavy pistol smoking in her hand.

I blink. Must be the pain. I'm hallucinating. She wouldn't. My Harley would never--

She helps the Joker to his feet, grinning madly. What has he done to her??

A lot, judging from the way he holds her, the way he says "Nice shot.", the way he wipes his blood away, and takes her in his arms, kissing her.

I cry out with inhuman rage. I push myself harder than I ever have, just trying to get up. My Beretta is near, if I can just plug him one, take him out, then I can care for Harley. I love her, I'll always…

BLAM!

Something about the way she shoots me again tells me that this love is becoming painfully one-sided.

She comes up to me, pistol trained on me. Everything I am, everything I've worked for, is lost. I've tried to be a good, decent honest person, I've tried to be a good man. But to see Harley, the woman I love, mooning over my polar opposite, almost screams to me "Look, John. He's so handsome, and creepy and evil and psycho. But you know why I love him? _He's not you. _He's so much better than you can ever hope to be_." Guess nice guys really do finish last._

The pain begins to ebb away as I feel my eyelids closing. Lost a lot of blood, probably internally as well. Not long now, but not quick enough for this woman who I used to call my wife. She brings up the now nearly -depleted pistol and levels it at my chest.

When the shot comes, I welcome it. I just really wish I didn't have to hear this bastard laughing in the background. Helluva send-off.

End

I dunno, I might continue with this when I've finished with other projects. Lemme know how you guys like it, okay?


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